


Chipped.

by Vittarius



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-28 23:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10841856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vittarius/pseuds/Vittarius
Summary: Georgi falls in love. She doesn't.





	Chipped.

**I.**

Georgi is an old soul.

"What could you possibly want from an antique store?" Victor accuses light heartedly. Honestly, he doesn't know what to think anymore.

He's known Georgi for a couple of years now, and that was long enough to prove a theory that had started as an assumption.

Which is, the guy is an elderly man trapped in a nineteen-year-old body. An honest to goodness elder, because Georgi loves watching historical films, and goes to bed at 9, and reads the paper and stops in front of antique stores when they are supposed to be enjoying what's probably going to be their only free night until the Championship ends.

So instead of going for a drink, or visiting La Fontana di Trevi, or whatever says the cliché bucket list about being in Rome for the first time, they walk inside a dusty store that proudly sells a bizarre disarray of even dustier objects.

The place is called _Art'è_ , and Victor isn't even sure how to pronounce that. He can bet his ass that Georgi knows, though. It's the kind of thing he'd know.

Georgi just shrugs and sneezes as he studies the shelves. "You never know what you might find in here."

Nothing, that's what, Victor thinks. But it makes him wonder, what Georgi expects to find.

Because Georgi lives in a constant state of looking-for and never-finding. And he doesn't know if it's bad luck or Fate's design, or if someone up there is messing up with him just because. Whatever the reason, Georgi is always alone.

Victor thinks he finally understands why Georgi loves old things so much.

Old things have a past. They are full of memories, hands that touched them, eyes that looked at them, lips that kissed them. They meant something to someone, long ago.

Old things were important once. Georgi finds them and makes them important again.

And it makes sense, for Georgi is an old soul. And Victor thinks now that maybe his friend is not looking for anything. Maybe he's waiting.

Victor lets the idea drop, and eyes through the many shelves. Most of the items have been there for a long time, it shows. Like that creepy porcelain doll that lost half of her eyelashes or the Crispo Lily Sodas Tin that probably no one wants to buy.

Some are recent, like the two wedding bands cushioned inside a velvet box. It's weird to find new things in an antique store, but he thinks that the luster won't last. Can't last. By the end of the month, the rings will be covered in dust as well. Forgotten and old, as everything else in there.

Georgi buys a chipped brass compass. It doesn't work, the needle points wherever it wants. It's not particularly pretty, either. But Georgi thinks he can fix it, and he looks happy, and it's enough.

They barely talk in their way back to the hotel, but Victor is used to that. After seven years of training with Georgi, he's learnt not to push it. Georgi always think carefully before speaking, to make sure that what he says is important and not whatever comes to mind. Victor is the exact opposite.

They quickly walk past the room Yakov shares with Lilia. Victor thinks about letting them know he and Georgi are back, but the room is quiet and they are probably sleeping by now.

He's glad that they decided to get married, _finally_. Yakov can be an old stubborn man, and Lilia was too proud to propose, so it took them some good fifteen years to figure out they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. Or maybe they knew all along.

The room he shares with Georgi is spacious but not overly so. Two beds, two nightstands and minibar with chips and other junk food they're not allowed to eat. A glass sliding door opens to a balcony and shows them a city that refuses to fall asleep. The air night is invigorating.

With practiced agility, Victor changes to a dress shirt and slicks his hair back.

"I'm going out for a drink with the Ukrainian's," he says. "You coming?"

Georgi shakes his head from where he's sitting on the bathroom floor. He's cleaning his new purchase with soapy water, a sock, and what seems to be toothpaste.

"You sure? Iryna is going to be there." The lack of response confirms that Georgi has no idea who that is. "The blonde? She won gold last year at the Ukrainian Nationals."

"Ah." A pause. "Better not. I'm finishing this and then I'm going to bed. Have fun, though." He barely lifts his eyes, rubbing harder.

Victor half smiles.

An old soul indeed. Waiting for someone to find him and make him important again, like that timeworn little treasures that he cherishes so much.

But sometimes waiting is not enough.

 

 

 

**II.**

Victor wins gold, and Georgi doesn't even make it to sixth place.

They come back to Russia and it's all Victor, Victor, Victor. Georgi tries really hard not to compare himself with his friend, and fails.

He feels like he's always a step behind, like someone else's shadow. Victor is virtually his same age, yet he's accomplished thrice as much. He's not envious, though. It's not in him to feel jealousy. He's just… taken aback.

Victor is twenty-four hours older than Georgi. Literally, their birthdays are one day apart. Instead, their lives seem to be miles away. Even though they share everything, from coach and choreographer, to training schedules, Georgi cannot take fly.

He wonders what he's missing, lacking. Why Victor is successful and loved and _seen_ , while everyone periodically forgets about him. He thinks that, maybe, he's better that way, anyways. Fame looks exhausting.

But no one told him that, when life is simple, events are reduced to a blob of time. So days turns into weeks, that somehow end up being months, and by the time Georgi stops and thinks, four years have passed and nothing's changed. Except-

"Iryna invited us to her wedding," Victor drops casually one morning, reaching down to pat the frost out of his blades. "I can't believe I was there when she met Anton. Do you remember, that time in Rome?"

Georgi grunts a reply, but Victor doesn't seem to be listening. "You didn't come to the pub, I think? But seriously, it was like… like love at first sight." He taps the toe pick against the ice a little, and is apparently satisfied with the result, because he smiles and continues, "It's a plus one thing, so I thought I should let you know in advance." His words sound forced, almost pitiful, as if he already knew that Georgi wouldn't manage to get a date to the wedding if his life depended on it.

It's true, though. At his 24, Georgi remains celibate while Victor will probably attend Iryna's party with his fifth (or sixth?) girlfriend this year. Because God knows he can't last with any woman, so instead of accepting defeat, he changes them as easily as he changes his programs. As soon as he dumps one, another one is awaiting by the door. Georgi doesn't know what the hell is Victor trying to prove with all that farce.

One thing is sure. None of them know what love is.

So Georgi pathetically asks his sister to be his plus one, and she happily agrees. The promise of free food and the chance to wear those heels she bought and never used, and she's ready to go.

The wedding is. Fucking. Weird.

He's never been to one before, but he's pretty sure they're not supposed to go like this.

The couple steps on a tiny towel before the 'I do' part and Iryna's mother starts crying like it's the end of the world. Georgi guesses it's from happiness, but he wouldn't put his hands in the fire for that. And then, two old ladies decide it's a good time to start cooing like pigeons, and they keep doing that for the rest of the wedding, intermittently.

Also, apparently is a common thing to wear enormous crowns all throughout the ceremony. They look like a king and his queen. Georgi doesn't particularly mind.

When they go to the hotel for the reception, the music is strange as well, but he can deal with that because he doesn't dance, anyways.

So he just sits at his designed table eating bread rolls and sipping champagne, and he feels like a goddamn champ. He's starting to feel a little tipsy when the chair by his side is pulled and a woman drops over it. Georgi stiffens immediately.

The woman sighs, not even looking at him, and takes off her shoes. She starts massaging the ball of her left foot with her thumbs.

Georgi studies her profile. She's pretty. Beautiful, he'd even dare to say. Her dark brown hair lies long and loose, obscuring the open back of her dress, yet allowing glimpses of freckled skin beneath. As she leans forward to put her shoe back, her hair moves with her, hiding her face until she straightens and flicks it back over her shoulder.

He realizes then that he's been paying attention to her hair, and only her hair, for five long minutes. So he focuses on her face instead. Her nose is slightly upturned, but in a cute way. He lips are red, and he can't see her eyes, but he's sure they are equally entici-

"What?" She sounds bored, borderline on annoyed, but to Georgi, her voice matches that of an angel. Her eyes are brown. What a breathtaking discovery.

"Uh…"

"Was this chair taken?" She starts to stand up but Georgi shakes his head (he still cannot find his voice), and the woman sits again. "Thank goodness. My feet are killing me. I don't want to walk again, ever."

Georgi nods. "Georgi."

"…What."

"I'm Georgi. My name. Georgi." He's pretty sure by now that the Russian dictionary lost 99.9% of its vocabulary in the last five seconds. The only words left are 'Georgi', 'my' and 'name.' And 'beautiful.' But he can't use that one.

"Ah." She looks at him like she thinks he's a little bit dumb. He sure feels like it. "Yes, I think we met before. Rostelecom Cup 2010? I remember your costume."

He recognizes her, then. They met a few years ago, it's true. She's a Russian ice dancer, one of the good ones. _Anya._ But she looks… different. Back then she was cheery, and happy, and fucking bright. And now she's all serious and reserved, and bitterness seeps through a poorly built façade of not-caring.

"Ah, y-yes. That was me. I guess," he adds. His costumes are always something to remember. He likes them that way.

She nods, barely paying attention. Silence falls around them, and it's awkward, but she doesn't seem to notice, or care. After a few moments, she hisses and curses under her breath.

"It hurts that bad?" Georgi ventures. He's never had a girl to talk about that kind of stuff, and he's really curious. He remembers asking his sister about how nail polish worked, and being mocked for a week. So he asks, because it doesn't make sense to use high heels if it's gonna make your feet throb.

"What?" She lowers her eyes to her feet, following his gaze. She understands. "Ah. No. It's just… My stupid ex is here."

"Really?" Georgi cranes his neck, and then belatedly realizes he has no clue what the man looks like. But he kinda wants to. "Where?"

"Near the old ladies singing. Blue bow tie, light brown hair, pathetic attempt of a goatee." She reaches for Georgi's flute of champagne and downs it. "By his side, his new jerk of a girlfriend."

Oh. Georgi frowns. He’d kind of expected the man to be seriously good looking. A tall, blonde, blue eyed deity or something. But he's pointedly average, with a wide nose, weird eyebrows, and like, three chin hairs that look so sad that Georgi almost wants to laugh. In general, he looks like a nice, normal guy. Which makes Georgi angrier, because he’s not nice.

Anya is heartbroken, sad. And the guy obviously doesn't care, has already moved on.

This guy's the reason Anya lost her light, he thinks. He's the reason Anya is not enjoying the wedding, that she-

"I can't stay here," she says suddenly, putting on her other shoe. "He's looking this way, he's totally gonna try and come over."

Georgi squints. "Seriously?"

What the hell could that man want now?

“You don't know Isaak--he thinks we should keep being friends and all that crap, and he'll introduce me to _her_ and--”

"He's walking over," Georgi comments. "I'll fake a stroke and you run away in the confusion, deal?"

He doesn't know what's come to him, he doesn't _joke_ , ever. But Anya laughs, she really _laughs_. Georgi's heart fills with music.

"Nah. I can't run, my feet are still pretty much dead. But I've gotta like, I dunno, turn into this flower pot within the next five seconds or something."

She grabs the centerpiece and seems to consider hiding her face behind it. She's so cute.

Georgi blinks slowly, moving before he can think it over too much. Or at all. "Don't freak out."

Anya makes a face. "What're you--"

It's a dumb idea, and Georgi knows it, but it's also a really good idea, and maybe it's the champagne, but before he can stop himself, his hands are darting out to cup at the back of her neck, pulling her in.

There's a moment –-Georgi sees it in her eyes-- where they both know exactly what's going to happen. But his mind shuts down, and he can't bring himself to care about anything else but the hand wrapped around her hair and the smell of her skin –-something sweet, and mingled with sweat from all the dancing. Her scent it's intoxicating. Just like her lips.

He opens his eyes, almost not wanting to see. Anya's are closed.

"He's walking away," he whispers against her lips, afraid of breaking the moment. Afraid that, if he speaks too loudly, they will shatter in a million fragments and disappear into nothingness. It's a curious thing to think, how transient they really are. "He- he's gone," he confirms, and they part away.

Georgi presses a hand against his lips, feeling them tingle. He needs to break the silence, somehow. "Sorry." He's not sorry _at all_.

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she busies her hands pretending to straighten the skirt of her dress, and furrows her brow while deep in thought.

Georgi wishes he could read minds. He's drunk, too drunk. He doesn't know what to think, he doesn't know what to say. He screwed up completely. He's a creep. A twenty-three-year-old virgin that's going to die alone because everything he does is weird.

He looks around, trying to alleviate this feeling of embarrassment. His sister is nowhere to be found but Victor's dancing with a blond man near the bar. He has his hands around this guy's waist, their bodies flush against one another. He looks happier than ever. Free.

Also, Georgi can practically smell Victor's drunkenness from where he's sitting. He'll blame it on the alcohol the next morning, as he's done several times even though the press is getting suspicious.

Georgi thinks it's better to have never tasted love, than to have found it and being not allowed to act on it by the environment that surrounds them, the circumstances. Maybe that's why Victor refuses to accept the true. Rejection is one thing, forbiddance is a different world altogether.

A world that seems to be teamed against them in a game they've already lost. They've never had a chance to win.

He stands up and murmurs a poor, "I need a smoke." He never smoked in his life, never even had a cigarette between his fingers. But it's an easy way out. He doesn't think he'll be able to stand the silence any longer without panicking.

Anya looks at him and nods, quickly averting her eyes.

Georgi rearranges his tie and stumbles a little. He walks away.

A hand catches his wrist before he can take more than two steps.

"You know what?" Anya tells him as an afterthought. "Let's get out of here."

Georgi pliantly grabs her hand and lets himself be dragged outside the reception room. The chilly night suddenly sobers him up and he becomes hyperaware of the silence that surrounds them once they cross the doors and step into the hallway.

The carpet of the lobby lies red and gold and expensive under their feet. It's all Georgi focuses on while he admits dumbly that, "I don't really smoke."

Anya doesn't look surprised as she runs her hands through her pleated dress, smoothing the wrinkles once more and humming. "I'm tired," she whines.

"Oh." Georgi tries not to sound disappointed. He probably fails.

"You have a car?"

He thinks about the ugly old thing he'd been driving since eighteen. "Yeah."

"Take me home, then."

There's not an ounce of ambiguity in her words. Just like before the kiss, they both know what's going to happen if he accepts. And he does, because what else can he do. How could he refuse when his heart is aching so badly for it?

They fall tangled on a mattress of feathers and surrounded by darkness. Georgi remembers when he used to think he was like a shadow. But shadows don't exist in the dark. Instead, that's where he feels the strongest.

He's not like a shadow. Because in the dark he feels alive. In the dark he shares whispered kisses told as secrets, and it's a first.

He's nervous. So nervous. But in the dark, they dance together and no one can see them, judge them. And Anya is smiling, or so he thinks, and she kisses his nose. And Georgi knows there are no winners in the dark. No losers either. They just are.

They perform to the music that is the beating of their hearts, their pants, the shuffle of sheets. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever done.

In the dark, he thinks he finally understands what love is.

 

 

 

**III.**

Georgi is all rough edges and chipped paintwork.

He can't hide anything. Maybe he doesn't want to, needn't to. From the very beginning, he shows exactly as he is, so it isn't his fault.

Georgi is transparent about his feelings, his needs. And it should be exhausting, but Anya kind of likes that. She likes the sincerity. For a change.

She likes him clingy, and possessive, and needy. It makes her feel appreciated.

It's unhealthy, she knows. And it cannot last. She knows that too.

She's projecting her own needs on someone else. She doesn't want Georgi, she wants Isaak.

And she really wants to want Georgi, because he's kind and considerate, and worries about her, and is always eager to see her. But he isn't Isaak.

She hates herself for that. There's a nice guy right _there_ , and yet, she's still chasing after someone that made her believe she'll never love again. For Isaak is the reason why she can't listen to Stas Piekha anymore, or watch stupid romcoms, and another million things that's been ruined because they were either _their_ things or remind her too much of him.

Sometimes she wants to forget.

What happened after Iryna's wedding wasn't a mistake, nor an accident. It was oblivion in a pill. Two months and she's become addicted to that already. It's easy to be self-indulgent in the things that makes us feel good, no matter how fleeting the effects may be.

Sometimes she feels guilty. What they have it's not real, after all. But they both are broken and lonely. When they're together, they lick each other's wounds. It works for them. Eases their aches.

It's what they need.

Georgi's flat is as cluttered and flawed as Georgi himself. The first time she visits him there, she bumps into a desk and knocks a hardback album full of stamps to the floor. Georgi says it's okay, even though she can see he's worried about the ones that got crinkled.

He always says it's okay, as if nothing she did could be wrong, ever. He takes the blows, and accepts them as a reward. He's desperate to love. To be loved.

Georgi is afraid of disappointing, Anya realizes. Thusly, he can't say no.

It's a dangerous thing to know. A little bit sad, too. Mostly she thinks that's the reason why they can't last. She's greedy by nature. She'll drain him before either of them notices.

She'll feed into that kindness she doesn't deserve, into that desperation Georgi seems to have. She'll devour him.

She'll survive, she knows. Georgi won't. And she can't do that to him. Georgi doesn't deserve to suffer. Yet, she can't break up with him. Not at this point.

Easily, routine becomes habit, and habits become rotten, for she knows they're living a lie. But she's happy now, she's happy by Georgi's side.

She's starting to heal. At least, thinking of Isaak doesn't hurt as much as it hurt before, so there's that.

Once the season starts, they don't see each other much. They train at different rinks with different schedules, but they manage. Anya finds herself missing him sometimes.

Georgi wins his first gold that summer. It's not a coincidence that Victor didn't take part in that competition. Anya well knows that, had the other Russian decided to compete, the first place would've belonged to someone else, and not her boyfriend. The victory is sweet, nonetheless.

She's rendered speechless by how stronger Georgi had become by her side. He's so in love his performances are more graceful than ever. He's skating his happiness.

It's his better season so far. He wins two golds more and a silver. Gone are the days when a sixth place was an unreachable dream. He flies, if he wants. And stands on the podium proudly, and cries unfamiliar tears of joy, and dedicates his speeches to his beautiful girlfriend, who's probably watching.

After his first Grand Prix Final, the season ends as quickly as it started.  
The results, you ask? Well, Georgi is happier than ever. Just being between the six better skaters in the world is enough, isn't it? Once you're there, the only thing left is to enjoy it as long as you can. And what's the difference if you end up sixth, third or even first? To Georgi there's none, and Anya can't hardly believe him when he tells her so.

But it's true. Georgi is always happy with what he has, never craves for more. Anya is almost envious of the idea. It's easier to melt into it.

Georgi likes kissing, a lot. It looks as if he's trying to make up for all the lost time. Sometimes he loses himself in the kissing so much, Anya has to remind him there's more than that. He's still as bad at it as the first time, but it's endearing.

It's the middle of a Monday, afternoon light slanting in through Georgi's one tiny window as they lay sleepy in between bunched blankets. One hand trails up her neck, cupping the side of her face and Georgi caresses her kiss swollen lips with the pad of his thumb.

"You're so pretty." His blue eyes are half-lidded, full of emotions. Bright.

In that moment, she knows exactly what he's thinking. What he wants to say. She can't hear those words. Not now, maybe not for a long time. Maybe not ever again. Maybe not from Georgi.

She turns around and faces the other way to hide her frown. "Tell me a story," she mutters. Something. Anything that's _not_ those three words.

She hears him shuffle around and then open a drawer from his nightstand.

"Six years ago," he starts. "I was in Rome for the Cup, with Victor. We were walking and I saw this place." The bed creaked and Anya pictured him gesticulating.

"What place?"

"Like a bazaar, but with old things."

"So an antique store?"

"Yeah, kind of. But it also was also full of new random stuff, like stuffed animals with mustachios and hats, or enormous plaster dogs to paint. I saw like eighty thousand tiny little boxes you could fit literally nothing inside them. And shoes, I don't know who buys their shoes there. No one, I guess. Maybe that's why they looked from the past century."

Anya muffles a laugh. "Did you buy them?"

"God, no. But I bought _this_ ," he says. He rolls onto his side, wraps an arm around her and shows her a small copper-y thing that looks like a pocket watch.

She takes it and turns it around in her hands. "It's heavier than it seems," she observes.

"Open it," he asks.

Turns out it isn't a watch, but a compass. "It's broken."

"Yeah, it's demagnetized or something. Heard it happens. I couldn't fix it."

Anya shifts a little to return the compass to Georgi, but he shakes his head. "That's not the important part. Look inside."

Anya draws the compass near to her face, and yes, there are letters carved on the inside of the lid.

" _Dels Desvalls, per Domenico Bagutti_ ," she reads slowly. Everything that's not Cyrillic it's still a challenge for her. " _Gràcies. Ara vés i troba al teu amor. --1808_." She closes the lid. "I don't understand. What does it mean?"

"It's in Catalan. It says something like 'from the Desvalls to Domenico Bagutti, thanks, now go and find your love', and the date. Thing is, I looked it up, you know, to translate it, and the guy was kinda important. Like, he built a labyrinth in Spain. And I mean, how cool is that?"

Anya starts. It's scary how much Georgi started talking like her. All the _you know's_ and _like's_ and _kinda's_ , and all the stuff he never used before meeting her. She wonders if she's acquired something from him, too. It's been almost two years, so she probably has.

"And like… I want to go. I want to go to that place and see the labyrinth myself."

Anya is not sure of the exact moment when they lowered their voices, but they are barely whispering by now. It's so domestic. Intimate.

"Would you come with me? I've been waiting for a while, almost since I bought it, but I never found the right moment, you know? And I think, I think it'll be nice, maybe for our anniversary, don't you think?"

Anya hums.

"Yeah?" Georgi asks.

"Yeah." She doesn't have the heart to tell him no. That romantic trips are for couples that are in love, something they _are not_. That they just coexist and, hang out, and fuck, and sometimes they kiss and say sappy things, but they are definitely not in love. No. They're not that kind of thing.

She thinks she'll have to tell him soon. She used to be good at pretending, even before Georgi, but now she can barely look him in the eye when it's so obvious that he-

She doesn't know how to put an end to whatever they have. She'll disappoint him, she knows. She's afraid to. Maybe that's what she got from Georgi.

And he's so honest. Always saying what he thinks, how he feels. Anya isn't sure she likes that anymore, because-

"I love you," Georgi murmurs against her hair.

In the silence that follows, she pretends to be asleep.


End file.
